


Duty Calls

by ink2819



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-10-28 20:11:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17793983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ink2819/pseuds/ink2819
Summary: Greg was wrapping up a long day of work while he received a phone call from the reception desk at the Yard.In the lobby, a certain drunk politician awaited him, needing an escort home.Part of a three-part-series of a short get together Mystrade story after the events of "The Final Problem".  Originally written in Chinese.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [伦敦市区有醉汉袭警](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15714108) by [ink2819](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ink2819/pseuds/ink2819). 



“Still not leaving,boss?”

The voice of Sergeant Donovan pulled Greg back from his Daydreaming. He realized they were the only two people left in the office. Looking down at the right bottom corner of his computer screen,

21:45.

“I haven’t done my report yet, the DCI has been bugging me about it for days.”

“Well, I’m off. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Greg looked up to reply the Sergeant with a smile. That moment he noticed she has put on makeup---she hasn’t had color on her lips all day. Who the fuck puts on lipstick before they leave work at 10pm?

DI Lestrade was no Sherlock Holmes, he had no interest in investigating the private life of his colleagues, so he just nodded at her and said, “Have a good night.”

“Oh I will.” Donovan was clearly excited when she replied. As the sharp tap of her heels disappeared at the end of the hallway, Greg was the only one left on the entire floor, rubbing his face in an attempt to stay awake.

The fluorescent light made his eyes sore, and the long hours spent before a desk stiffened his neck. His right hand had developed a prickly sensation that refused to go away regardless how he tried to rub it or fling it around. _Those horrid technology devices,_ Thought Greg. Didn’t Dimmock talk about some little gadgets that can help with carpal tunnel syndrome the other day? ----See? He was starting to use these pretentious terms just like the rest of his forensic team. They were quite the ones who worked tirelessly to keep the Yard’s use of professional terminologies in check.

“Stop calling it ‘that funky feeling in my wrist’, Greg.” They often said, wielding a peptide in his face, “The correct term is carpal tunnel syndrome. It happens when one of your major nerves to the hand is pressured.”

As if they did not get that piece of information from some blog post just like everyone else.

While Greg was stretching for the one hundredth time and re-adjusting himself in his office chair, the landline started to ring.

He picked it up.

Someone on the other end commented in surprise, “Ah,there IS someone there---Sorry. Is DI Lestrade still in?”

“Speaking.”

“Do you mind popping down to the lobby? We have a bit of a...thing.”

Greg rolled his eyes. Whoever was handling the late night shift at the reception was not very professional.“Can you first tell me what’s going on?”

“Um...well,” She paused, “Someone came in from the street. He said he had a bit to drink, and I asked him if there’s anyone we can call...”

“And?”

“He said to contact you, Inspector.”

“Me?”

“Yes. He also told us you were right up stairs, and to get you down here.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Mycroft Holmes, he said.”

 

Greg arrived at the lobby a few minutes later. And there was Mycroft, sitting in the fancy pavilion that was a part of the Yard new headquarter’s  six-million-worth renovation project.

Mycroft--- leaned back against the curved bench, umbrella in hand, starch-collared and all wrapped up in a full dinner jacket like a Christmas present.

He was staring out of the glazed wall behind him at the Thames. The water glowed under the colourful city lights; the London Eye a scarlet ring turning slowly against the night sky.

“Evening, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft sat up on the bench. He did sound a bit knackered. Gone was the default iciness in his tone, and Greg finally got a taste of the mallowy part of his natural voice.

“The river Thames looks quite wonderful at night, wouldn’t you agree?” The soft, warm light glimmered in Mycroft’s eyes. Influenced by the alcohol, perhaps, he was unusually conversational. “Tell me, do you prefer the current building, or the old establishment on Broadway? The traffic was terrible there, I recall.”

“This one’s better. I can take the Jubilee from Westminster.” Greg let out a exhausted sigh, and took a seat next to him.

“Ah. The underground, an inadmissible factor.” Mycroft tapped his pale fingers thoughtfully on the handle of his umbrella. “And yet, it would be more efficient to transfer onto the Victoria line---a common misconception: the Jubilee does take a shorter distance. However, the travel speed---” He suddenly realized his rumbling. “Apologies. I’m afraid the...intoxication had the better of me.”

“Not at all.” Said Greg, “You’re not even close to how Sherlock gets when he’s feeling talkative.”

Mycroft shot him a sulky look. It was properly adorable.

Greg had seen Mycroft like this---that night after Sherrinford---soft, real, and vulnerable

He was used to men letting a bit of their guards down over a few drinks. At the end of the day, everyone was the same. Nights such as this one, countless small talks and confessions were forgotten, buried, to preserve their dignity in the daytime. Because these men, in the positions and roles that they were held to, tortured by their self suppression and solitude. Because nobody was perfect.

“Where’s your assistant?” Greg asked.

“She had matters to attend to.”

“Your driver can take you back.”

“I’m merely a minor public servant, there isn’t such power for me to abuse.”

Greg rolled his eyes, and Mycroft added, “Drivers have nights offs, too.”

“How did you get here, then?”

“I walked.” Mycroft tipped his umbrella towards the west direction, “From the other side of Parliament street.”

“From Number ten Downing street, you mean.”

“Now, don’t give me that look, Inspector.” Mycroft cracked a smile---an authentic one, and some wonderful lines surfaced around the corner of his eyes.  “Even minor figures like myself get invited to Number Ten every so often. Although our Prime Minister’s behavior post alcohol is as embarrassing as her curtsey.”

Greg laughed out loud, “Well, you could still walk right into traffic, raise your hand in the air and yell ‘taxi’ like some of us.”

“If you are referring to Sherlock, I can only say I detest that behavior.”

“Then use your phone?”

“It was dead by the time Prime Minister concluded her toast.”

“Then you’re very lucky today, because I drove my car to work.”

“I am aware.”  

 

Midst the silent drive to his apartment, Greg started thinking about how his relationship became this way with Mycroft Holmes.

He did have a ‘thing’ for Mycroft. The mysteries, the distance, and the wonderful dress sense---totally his type. Between the first few encounters that they had, Greg spent the rest of his days fantasizing. That if he got to have a smoking-hot one-off with the man, it would make all of Sherlock’s exploitation worthwhile. But all fantasies aside---Greg wouldn’t dare to make any move on the elder Holmes brother. Each time Mycroft reluctantly let on any detail about his work, it only worked to expand his already extensive jurisdiction. Not to mention how many times he alluded to his cold-blooded nature as a government secret service mastermind, or something of the sort.

The man had painted himself as someone who could dismantle nations with a snap of his finger, and Greg knew how to take a hint.

He was not someone to be had.

Second guessing his navigation, not sure what to do with Mycroft if he had fallen asleep, Greg casted a side glance to his left. Mycroft was obviously not used to sitting in the passenger seat, and only made the compromise because Greg warned him off earlier when he pulled open the door to the back seat without a second thought.

“No way, I’m not your bloody Uber driver.”

The usually chauffeured politician now sat comfortably by his side with his eyes closed. His dinner jacket taken off, folded into a neat square, draping over his arm. His face was flushed with colors as they drove through the busy parts of the city under the blinking neons.

Between intersections, Greg found the courage and stared.

“Eyes on the road, Detective Inspector, not on me.” Mycroft said, keeping his eyes shut, “And please take the next left.”

“How the hell---never mind.”

Show off. Greg thought to himself, turning back his attention on the road ahead.

 

The silver BMW five series came to a stop at the front steps of Mycroft’s apartment. “Thank you for choosing Uber.” Greg gave him a bright smile, “Please leave a five star review for your driver.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrow, “I seem to have a better idea.”

Just then, he reached out to cup around Greg’s back of the head. Greg watched him get close, the crisp edge of his starched shirt cuff cutting the underside of his jaw.

Greg took a deep breath as Mycroft leaned in fully into his personal space---and held it. The smell of Gin and cigarette burning the inside of his nostril. As of now, Mycroft seems just a bit too warmed up to be called the “iceman”.

“Breathe.” Mycroft spoke softly, and Greg realized he has been holding his breath for quite some time. He let out a sniff, “If you don’t kiss me soon, I think I might suffocate to death.”

And Mycroft did just so.

The kiss came so suddenly. Mycroft pressed onto his lips with a certain urgency, and Greg started to shiver. Long, tender fingers rubbing through the hair behind his head, cupping the angle of his jawline, massaging the muscle on his neck. After a long day at work, Greg’s full head of silver hair had became streaky. The roots steaming, and his shirt collar soft under the moisture----but the night has clearly just begun. The temperature in the car was yet still rising, smothering wetness between mouths and lips.


	2. Chapter 2

The kiss---something that should have happened between them long ago, or at least Greg had always anticipated it. More often than not, in some moments during their conversations, Greg would think it perfectly natural to lean in and offer a kiss, to smooch some softness into that poker face. To feel Mycroft’s stiff shoulder relaxing in a kiss and a soft hug---even the inevitable stern rejection he’d receive---they played out so many times in Greg’s head that he could mistake them for reality.

Never did he have the audacity to dream of it initiating in such a way: It was Mycroft who pulled them close in the first place. A proposition so faithfully executed, that when he went for it, there were no room left for Greg to second guess his intention.

Like it was all meant to be.

“Gregory--” Mycroft’s lips moved against Greg’s temple.

Sound of heavy breathing and Mycroft’s raspy voice were like thunderclap between Greg’s ears. Mycroft’s fingers curled around his tender throat, thumb pressing against his pulse.

Dull ache and suffocation flowed like poison in his veins.

“Come home with me.” Mycroft whispered.

Greg was sent spinning.

 

 

With his full set of apparel, Mycroft was always armed to completion---a medieval fortress of a man. And to be led by this man into residence, or to take turn pinning each other on every reachable surface of his extravagant furnitures, was heaven. As they grounded their hot, wanting hardness together between layers of fabric, Greg was barely standing straight in the overwhelming sensation, and Mycroft fell along with him. Together they stumbled through the foyer, where Mycroft’s bow tie was tossed carelessly onto the floor, and then into the living room. The cufflinks mysteriously ended up between the sofa settees---took Mycroft the following two months to track them down. Greg helped Mycroft shed his waistcoat, and it dropped into a pile on the living room rug, tangled with the cheap coat that Greg had worn stubbornly for years.

Greg climbed on to Mycroft’s lap when they eventually made it to the enormous bed, sized enough to fit five grown men. Greg lowered his head to detangle the buttons on Mycroft’s crisp white shirt, resisting the urge to just rip everything apart. His fingers lacked far too much delicacy for the task. After what felt like an eternity, a small part of Mycroft’s bare chest appeared beneath Greg’s trembling hand.

The skin around Mycroft’s collar bone was pale and smooth and all rose-hued under the excitement, a bit of light hair was shyly showing through. Greg felt privileged just because of the view. For what was usually hidden far away from sight, and rarely shared with another soul, was shared with him alone. Greg wanted to own, to have, to claim that prize in front of him, and yet he hesitated.

“Mycroft, can you answer me a question first.”

“I will certainly try.”

“You’re not really drunk, are you?”

The subject under Greg’s interrogation slid two hands around his waist and held them there, leaning close to bury his nose into Greg’s chest under the open shirt.

And mumbled a few inaudible words against his skin.

“What was that?”

“I said it’s worse than that,” Mycroft moved his hand down. Bit by bit, he pulled Greg’s shirt free from his waistband. “I think I am about to lose my mind.”

“So you ARE tricking me into bed with you,” Said Greg. “That’s fine by me. But if we are to do this, you can’t pretend to forget everything the next day.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft sighed, his palm tearing away from Greg’s body, threatening to leave. Greg felt a pang of frustration as if a part of himself would go with it. “What a normal person usually expects from a relationship---I would not be capable of providing them.”

“I don’t want those stuff, I want YOU.” Greg blurted out without thinking. He then felt his face gradually heating up under Mycroft’s amused stare. They were both far too old to be saying things like this--- “But if this will turn us into strangers, I rather settle with what we had before.”

 _Even when what we had before was nothing more than waiting for a night like this to happen._ A tiny voice said in the back of his head. _Hoping, Willing, Begging for it to happen._

Mycroft stared at Greg in silence for a while, looking quite dazzled,if anything.

Once regained control over his expression and his usual eloquence, Mycroft smiled as he replied. “Strangers? I would never be able to resist your alluring attributes, Detective Inspector. I have not achieved that previously, and I definitely would not be attempting it in the future.”

Greg could tell Mycroft was being deliberately insidious for dramatic effect, referring him back as ‘Detective Inspector’ and all. It turned him on in a strange and beautiful way.

“Wait--Previously? How long?”

“Too long.”

*

Greg was pressed face down into the mattress, Mycroft held both his arms above his head with one hand, while caressing his stripped naked body with dexterous fingers. They ran along Greg’s spine, all the way down to the small of his back.

Mycroft gave his arse a bald squeeze without a moment’s notice.

Greg huffed a laugh and wriggled to get away, only to incite Mycroft’s mood in teasing him further.

Overcame with pleasure, Greg found out for the first time how much he liked to be stretched across the bed by Mycroft Holmes, to have his body intruded and coaxed.

It was all too sweet to be true.

“Twice a week for three hours.” Greg heard Mycroft say behind him.

“What’s that--?”

“The hobby by which you’d like to call ‘gentle football for senior gentlemen’”

 _And how the hell did you know about that._ “So my workouts are not so useless after all?” Greg asked. He could not stop smiling, feeling Mycroft worshiping the chiseled muscle on his calves.

“You look incredibly appealing, Gregory---”

Mycroft leaned down against Greg’s back. Greg could feel his erection poking his inner thigh behind a thin layer of cloth. _He is irritatingly Patient, this man._

“---Especially during those nights I watched you touch yourself.” Greg heard Mycroft finish the sentence. Then Mycroft reached around his waist, slid in between the sheets and his body, and took hold of Greg’s dripping cock.

“You mother-fucker.” It dawned on Greg what Mycroft was implying with what he just said. “You pulled a surveillance stunt on me too? You can’t just----”

Greg’s muffled protest into the pillow was cut off by Mycroft’s hand tightening on his cock.  

“Not only did I have access to the security footage, I also had the privilege to ‘examine’ the audio, dear Gregory.”

Upon hearing that, Greg was almost sweating out of his hair in embarrassment. “I heard you, how you called out my name,” Mycroft leaned close to talk into his ear, reducing him to a writhing mess. “Each time, on the verge of climax.”

Greg was done.

His earlobe was caught between Mycroft’s teeth. Light nibbles, flicker of tongue, outlining his shell, swirling into the center, wet and rousing sounds digging deep into his mind. And the hand, the hand that never once stopped stroking along his length. He gasped till his lung was sore. Greg was so done. Utterly, utterly done.

“Mycroft---”Greg’s voice husky with arousal, his cock noticeably twitched in Mycroft’s hand.

“Just like that, my dear.” Mycroft pinned Greg down to the bed, his body stretched across the mattress like a fish atop a cutting board. “I did also see rub your cock on the roughness of your bedsheets, rolling on the tip with your palm, like so---”

“Hah----Christ, Mycroft!”

“Precisely.”

Greg arched his back, shuddering beneath him. “While I witnessed all of that, I yearned, as much as you did for me.” Mycroft sped up his movement on Greg’s cock, “I want to feel your tip leaking pre-come into my hand. I imagined how it would feel when it swells up against my skin. You were such a distraction, Gregory. I found myself incapable to consider anything of importance.”

When Mycroft noticed Greg was close to orgasm, he stopped everything at once, and flipped him to lie on his back. His bedfellow’s hazy brown eyes stared back at him, face flushed and covered with a thin layer of sweat. Streaks of lovely silver falling over his forehead in disarray.

Mycroft bent down to kiss him, biting his lips ever so gently. He found Greg’s upper lip salty with moisture, his chest full of wonderful sounds yet to be drawn out, and his body craving for more. Mycroft tucked away a few strands of Greg’s hair, to uncover his gaze, damp and glistening under the warm bedroom light, pieces of shrapnel from the universe.

“Myc--” Greg murmured between breaths, watching him intently. Greg reached up, trembling, his muscles lunged for Mycroft’s body, “Fuck me, yeah?”

“Gladly.”

**

A bottle of lube in hand, Mycroft took of the silver ring from his finger and set it aside. The metal clicked as it hit the wooden nightstand.

“This is--?”

“My grandfather’s ring.”

“Ah. I thought--” Greg said shaking his head.

“Poor old Gregory, setting his heart on someone who might be married.” Mycroft posed a frown.

“I didn’t---Fuck!” Greg yelped out as Mycroft pressed a finger into his entrance, increasing its depth in gentle thrusts.

It was the most damn gorgeous hands someone could have, too. Greg felt dizzy just thinking about how those elegant fingers of his were attempting the obscene between his parted thighs.

They kissed, slow and leisurely, emerging in each wave of pleasure that brought them even closer than they thought possible. With every push against the softness inside, Greg sighed with contentment into Mycroft’s open mouth. Dribble by dribble, his dick was covered with wetness, precome running down lavishly onto his belly.

Unlike Mycroft, who seemed to have the self restraint of a superhuman, Greg couldn’t possibly bear to wait any longer. He gnawed on Mycroft’s shoulder, one hand reaching into his underwear to take hold of Mycroft’s swollen erection, wrapping his fingers around the heavy cock, “I’m ready...please.”

Greg’s hole was breathtakingly tight, all slippery and soft and empty for Mycroft. The muscles pulsing, Needing him. As Mycroft pulled out his fingers and entered him, Greg lost half the ‘Fucking Christ’ on the verge of his tongue. The growl turned into a wanton plead. Greg never knew he had it in him---he squeaked like a slaughtered animal when he tried anal when he was a young lad. Greg expected blood, but there was none. Even the pain he prepared himself to brace paled in comparison to the ache and itch of unfulfilled desire. His passage took it in like a soft embrace, fitting around Mycroft as he held his hips firm, taking him in one forceful stroke, and once more.

When Mycroft slammed so deeply into the right place. Soreness, like aged wine, set his nerves alight, while the sharp stretch of his entrance smacked him awake like a freezing cold stream, sweetness in its aftertaste.

“Gregory, you feel---quite wonderful.” Mycroft’s eyelid fluttered shut. Each thrust he made Greg’s leg and core quiver, feeling as if he had already came several times.

Greg put his arms around Mycroft’s neck. They were sweating everywhere, the sound of their flesh pounding together echoed around the room.

“I’m not sure I would have the mental capacity to concentrate on my job after tonight.” Mycroft lifted Greg’s hip, pressing his folded knees up to his chest, thrusting home, “Afterall-- I have the fine arse of a certain member in the Scotland Yard force to occupy my thoughts.”

The change of angle hit a sensitive spot in Greg. Tears and breathy moaning poured out of him at once.

“There, oh God, please, Mycroft---”

Mycroft picked him his pace, delivering Greg what he pleaded for without fail, while encircling his neglected cock in hand.

“Myc,I’m almost, I--” Greg’s climax rolled out into the open air like a newborn chick that knocked a crack open from its shell. His muscles contracted with a fullness like never before. His eyes rolled back, lids heavy.

He saw Mycroft and Mycroft alone in his blurry sight. He felt nothing other than the melting, warm sensation between one breath and the next.

Mycroft came just a few moments later, going silently still. In the receding tides of aftershock, his chest rose and fell in heavy panting, dotting tender kissed all over Greg’s face, and settled eventually on sucking a red mark just beneath his lover’s jaw---somewhere Greg would have a great deal of trouble covering up the next day.

*

*

*

“It’s not carpal tunnel syndrome, Greg.” Mycroft’s voice was muffled in Greg’s chest.

“What?”

“Your wrist. It was strained by your recent masturbation. Now that your sex life has improved, I’m sure it will heal before you know it.”

“Fuck you, Mycroft Holmes.”

“Anytime, good night.”


End file.
